We marry our mirrors—someone familiar in a way and who reflects how we feel about ourselves at the moment, and then we fold inside ourselves.

Snared on the barbed wire of time, paying homage to the clock, each man who ticks away time to hold back the decades were shrinking my world like the most delicately tinted of bubbles, shrinking in ever narrowing circles from the upward gush of my own infancy.

You've got to be crazy to see a psychiatrist. Don't call just anyone if you’re gnawing on a bad day, and all you want to do is have a discussion with the social workers snared on the gears and fears of nine to five to feel alive.

We all marry our mirrors, someone who reflects how we feel about ourselves at the moment, the quadrillionth of a second. Every wife is a mirror of her own husband's failures, and every husband a reflection of his wife's successes.

If you want to make money, you find a void in society and fill it. With more than 60 percent of women being snuffed from success at work by one or another ceiling, it's no wonder a sharp promoter saturated the market with anarchists in pantyhose or straps feeling their inadequacies and riding their bikes on sidewalks in back of slow-moving pedestrians. Let your words rise with a voice of resilience instead of falling like embroidered saddles on jackasses.

Remember the era when some books mentioned that only female failures married when career success eluded them in the typing pool in spite of their degrees in the subject they most wanted to practice? A voice of confidence moves forward.

Nowadays dolls don't expand into motherhood. They're squeezed into silver plated girdles where the only private space is a purse in a room filled with computers where the only lights flicker at one’s visions. Readers are invited to join my creativity enhancement Facebook group.